


The Man from the Ministry

by Aeshna etonensis (GMWWemyss)



Category: One Direction (Band), surprise crossover - Fandom
Genre: Gen, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-25
Updated: 2014-11-25
Packaged: 2018-02-27 00:14:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,006
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2671730
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GMWWemyss/pseuds/Aeshna%20etonensis
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which everyone's favourite boyband confront the ... hairy ... situation of life with lycanthropy - and of learning that there are, actually, my dear Horatio, more things in heaven and earth and All That.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Man from the Ministry

**Author's Note:**

> It is apparently incumbent upon all writers in this (as in every) fandom to do one or more crossovers. It is also apparently a mandatory trope to do at least one crossover with – or in this case, including – that Yank telly thingumbob about lycanthropes (which I have not in fact seen, my own preferred werewolves being of the sort Webster immortalised in The Duchess of Malfi – but that’s another matter altogether. (All together: ‘But that’s another matter!’....)) This, then, is a sly snippet, consisting of the ending to one of the many, many stories I shall never, I rather suspect, actually ever write.

* * *

‘Mr Tomlinson. Gentlemen. I’m from the Ministry.’ The man seemed rather young for the evident authority he wore like a cloak, although his dark, unruly hair – floppy in quite a public-school manner, with a fringe that swooped over his brow like the canonical James Bond’s – _was_ flecked with grey. He was short, trim, and quite notably serious, and his green eyes, greener than even those of one Styles H, green as Nialler’s Ireland, were icy; he carried himself like a very senior officer, although whether of police or of HM Forces it was difficult to judge; and Zayn at least noticed with some alarm that he carefully did not specify _which_ Ministry he represented. Judging from the gloss on his boots and the handkerchief in his sleeve, from his bespoke suit and his regimental tie – the tie of a regiment which somehow none of them could place but each felt he ought to recognise – it was, reflected Zayn, quite likely indeed that ‘Ministry’ was another term for Six or Five....

‘I understand,’ said the man, in clipped, officer-like tones, ‘that you had a spot of bother? Mr Horan – the elder – has put me broadly in the picture. You were … attacked, I gather.’

Liam exchanged a look with Louis, and was nodded on.

‘Yes.’ Zayn thought that the faintest of smiles just crossed the man’s face: fair enough, thought he, there was something endearing about Liam at any time, and specially so when he looked like an affronted, adorably concerned retriever. ‘By. Well. You said you spoke to Nialler’s dad.’

‘I did, yes. Go on.’

Liam visibly steeled himself. ‘Werewolf hunters.’

‘Quite.’ The man did smile, faintly. And briefly. ‘The Ministry are advised of the claim. Were they all of them, so far as you know, British? Or were there Americans as well?’

‘Both,’ said Louis, decisively, taking up the mantle that was properly his. Beside him, Haz squeezed his hand, reassuringly.

The man from the Ministry fanned out a set of snaps from – somewhere: it was like a conjurer’s sleight of hand. ‘If you’d be so good, gentlemen … take your time....’

Niall needed little time. As a hunter himself – if on the side of the … well, not  _angels,_ precisely – he knew the attackers of old. He flicked half a score of photos into the middle of the table. 

The man from the Ministry raised a warning hand before Niall could speak. ‘Please, gentlemen: all of you, independently.’

Haz also did not want a lengthy perusal: his gorge – and his hackles – rose immediately at seeing faces he’d never forget, try though he might. The others nodded as well.

‘T’em’s t’e feckers,’ said Niall, in a tone as cold, deadly, and snapping as his own bowstring.

The man from the Ministry nodded. ‘Very well. I’m greatly obliged.

‘Now, here’s what we are going on with. Her Majesty’s Government have, you’ll understand, obligations to the public welfare and the public safety, and to the defence of the realm. Being now seized of this matter, we are obliged to take it up, you know. Naturally, it is our duty therefore to bring these persons before the appropriate authorities and hear them and their allegations out. Indeed, there are positive, statutory provisions at issue: these people must be allowed to put their story to a tribunal – rather a special sort of tribunal – and explain why they believe in absolute truth that they were attacking, ah, werewolves. As apparently they _were_ so assured. Thereafter –’

Haz was commonly polite – and commonly willing to let his Louis lead them; but he could not refrain from interrupting at this. ‘And – what? Give them a medal? A licence to kill? Put a price on our heads?’

‘Mr Styles. Please, compose yourself. (It really must be something about the name. We must prevent allowing children to be christened “Harry” : shockingly stroppy, they tend to be.) The Ministry, working with other departments of HM Government, fully intend allowing these persons to speak to their settled conviction and explain their actions.’

Louis was beginning to twig, by the looks of it, though to what, and why it made him so gleeful, Zayn for one could not imagine; and Niall was positively smirking in a fashion unnervingly Tommo-like.

‘After which, of course, we shall – _on that basis_ – deport the Americans so that they may be looked after in their own country, and shall, of course, detain the British citizens under the appropriate sections of the Mental Health Act 2007.

‘After all, in their own as in the public interest, we cannot have persons going about the countryside attacking innocent people, armed to the teeth, and suffering from delusions. As everyone knows –’ and here the eyes of the man from the Ministry became a warm, Springtide green as of meadows, comforting and full of cheerful life – ‘there are no such things as _werewolves._ One rather pities these poor, deluded people; of course it’s both just and kind to see them treated.’

The lads looked at one another with dawning hope (well, Louis and Niall were sniggering, but that was hardly unusual).

The man from the Ministry stood; and for all that he was shorter even than Louis, he seemed to fill the room.

‘I have left my card and contact information – should there be an emergency, and I do trust you’ll not abuse the definition – with the elder Mr Horan.’ He snapped on a pair of specs, and smiled, and pushed his fringe away from his forehead, which bore a jagged, faded, silvery scar. ‘Good day, gentlemen, and good luck. And –’ he grinned, and let fall his formality as if it had been an invisible cloak – ‘if there’s a _real_ sodding emergency? Just send an owl; it’ll find me. Correspondence to Potter H, please; if I’m unavailable, I’ll send my godson, you’ll _like_ Teddy, he’s just left school and joined the Ministry. Until then....’ 

And the man from the Ministry vanished with a  _pop!_ as Niall roared with laughter and his four werewolf friends looked at one another with wild surmise.

 


End file.
